Sunday 1 April 2012

Short story. "Have you got Talent, World?"

 The brush slides through her long hair with a gentle susurrus, maintaining a peaceful quite about her; one that could not be broken , not even by the nervous pacing of her mother. In fact she quite enjoyed the friction of such frenetic emotions against her silence. The brush caught violently against a snarl, with gentle fingers she parted her long locks, bringing the knot into the warm afternoon light. Behind her, her mother once more snatched up the white envelop from the counter, knocking over a bottle from the myriad unguents and cosmetics that lay scattered about it. Slowly her fingers worked on the knot, easy out looser threads of hair. The paper of the envelope gasped as it was opened, the Worlds Got Talent backstage passes checked and roughly loved.

    With a last pull the knot was unravelled, she once more resumed her strokes.

“Are you sure you want to do this? It’s not too late too stop this, I will support you, whatever your choice.”

She placed the brush into a patch of sunlight and looked into the mirror, meeting her mother’s reflected eyes.

“I am sure of who I am.”

Her mother’s face was old before it’s time, once beautiful, but sorrows and hardship had made a map of her features.

“ I…I don’t understand. I try…but…”

Her eyes were brown, but blown black with her anger, with her sadness and, worst of all, her fragile mocking hope.

“I know. I love you.”

“I love you too. Is that enough?”

“It is a good start. Help me with my dress?”

   Her mother flashed her a small smile, comfortable with such a normal thing. It had taken so long to find the right outfit. Is a dress too feminine, or embracing her sexuality, or would trousers give her more authority, or would that be embracing patriarchal prohibitions? Is white too standard a colour of innocence, red of whorishness, purple of assumed royalty and arrogance? Should she follow fashion to show her modernity, or go for a timeless classic (at the risk of seeming outdated?)

“You look lovely.” Her mother said, pressing a hand to her cheek. The familiar smell and feel of her was comforting.

“Are you ready?” She asked her, her own hand around her mother’s waist.

“I think so. It will be so very hard though. Everyone will want you, so many will take great pleasure in trying to hurt you. How am I supposed to protect you from that? I’m scared that you will leave me behind, that you will change so much that I do not recognise you anymore…”

“People do not recognise me now, and when they do it will take awhile before they admit to it. It will be very hard, but there will always be one, undeniable constant; that I am your daughter.”

   Her mother sat with a huff, resigned to what was to come, absently running her fingers around the laminated edge of the passes.

“I still think your colour’s going to be a problem.”

She laughed and waved her brown hands about.

“We’ve all been mixed race, people just like to conveniently forget that when they’re asserting their own right’s of dominance. I wonder what colour I will be in a couple of hundred years?”
Her mother arched a brow.

“And you’re a girl.”

“Certainly am! Its even my time of the month!”-she ducked a lipstick thrown in giggling rebuke- “ Daddy finally realised sons weren’t working out. I mean, some of them did a good job while they were around…but. Didn’t really last did it? Things are a bit muddled up now. In fact it’s a shambles.”

“Things were different then, don’t be too hard on them.”

“Exactly. Not only am I, as a woman, understanding of a strong natural link with the world, with creation, with the future (not merely one of transience), I also have more adequate tools. All those lovely mediums. “ She tipped an outrageous wink.

“A terrible pun, but do go on.”

“Ideas are better suited to survive in these times, if they hold enough weight to settle through to swift fluff that clogs up our thoughts. They can be shared instantly across the world, they are defiant of borders and governments and bias. The truth will evolve, as is its wont, but the core will always be accessible to those who seek it, easily accessible.”

  Her mother’s hair blazed in the sunshine, the light trembling as she slowly shook her head; not in denial it seemed, but at the complexities that would confound her.

“I’m not entirely convinced. You might be voted out in the first round!”

   A door opened in interruption. A wave of shouts, distant thumping of bass music, random jingles, honking and general blarings carried a caricature of a hip business woman on it’s crest. Eyes fastened to her clip board she thrust herself (and two unasked for cups of steaming coffee) between mother and daughter. Branded plastic bags of gauche swag were unceremoniously thrown on the beauty counter, spilling out T-shirts and key-rings with her face on them under the questioning slogan “ Worldly Talents?”.  As her mother glared and puffed up at the new-comer, who was mumbling and ticking off requirements on her clipboard, she pondered the rather unfortunate connotations and placement of the slogan, and firmly decided not to wear hers. Except maybe when she was old as a sort of irony/humble origins piece. If she wasn’t sacrificed that is.

“Right then, congratulations, good luck! Are you excited? Nervous? Relax! You’ll have a good time. Hair and make-up will be…oh! Have they been already? That damn…sorry. Actually this is great! We’ve been a bit pushed...but now...ok! Mike; check ha”

The woman’s fingers flashed, pinched and scurried over her blouse, back and ear. The weight of the mike and battery pack took longer to settle.

“Look up lovely: The light is red, when it is green its time to get the show on the road. Open you door, quickly, very quickly, follow the runner who will be outside, they’ll take you to the stage entrance and count you in. Then its down to you! Bye”

The woman rather dangerously stuck her head back into the room just as the door was about to slam shut, a puzzled look in her eye.

“When you’re being counted in look out at the audience; your eyes wont be so startled by the lights when you have to go in front of them…Good luck!”

A gentle quiet once more grew in the room, both seemed content settle into it for a moment. She ran her fingers over the silken, overly bright petals of the scent-less flowers. Her mother absently pawed through the gift bags.

“Know one of the challenger’s I’m looking forward too?”

“ mmm?”

“The scientists.”

“Oh?”

“I’m going to tell them it’s a good thing ‘God’ doesn’t like to paint ‘his’ toenails!”

Her mother despondently took off the large foam hat moulded into a rough likeness of her daughter, and met her eyes.

“And what if you go out in the first round?” So typically tactless and stubborn she roused a surge of love in her mortal heart.

“ Because I’m going to give them what they want. I’m going to fulfil a predetermined role.”

Her mother’s eyes were dark and serious. She smiled a secret smile in return.

“I’m going to be the prophet.”

The smile disappeared.

“And I’m going to show them the use of a prophecy, that it is not an inescapable future, that they are not a countdown, but a warning, and offering.”

Her mother’s tears flowed down familiar groves.

“Tonight there are two terrorist groups, in two different countries, of different affiliations who will commit atrocities that will be spoken of in every corner of this world. There is a man with a basement full of children, his club, which he will open tonight. Cherub’s it is called. There is a nurse who will poison an entire hospital. There is an president who will command the release of a virus that will kill thousands before the vaccine is made available for sale. I will name all of these. I will call out to them to stop. I will tell them of wise people they may go too, who will help them, who will weigh justice.”

“You will rely on their goodness?!”

“No. I know that at least one will turn. Their story will come into the light, and there will be uproar. If the other’s do not turn, the authorities will have to investigate the them, the people will demand it.”

“And what if they don’t?”

“Ah…I understand your fears…I share them. These…deaths will happen if I do nothing. All those awful variables are in motion, across the globe. Tonight I may be able to save some, and in saving them awaken others. Even their deaths would vindicate me, though it would be a terrible vindication. The worst is, if the worst wasn’t the most likely outcome, then I wouldn’t be here.”
Her mother sniffed and wiped her face. So conflicted a visage, the numbness of her cheeks spoke of long years of hopelessness, of her acceptance of a painful outcome, and yet the softness of her mouth spoke of hope yet to come.

“My daughter, please don’t hurt yourself too much. There is only so much one heart can bear.”

With a grating buzz the light turned green.

“I love you.”

“I love you”.

   Tightly wound about one another they squeezed the message home, snatched a last moment of old.

   The door opened and she was pulled along a swift tide of babble before she had even set her foot down. Dark corridors, endless fat cables snaking and twisting along, a barren, flashing landscape constricting about her. Just as suddenly she rocked to a halt, brushing the dark uniform of the runner who now ticked dutifully. She let her eyes wander out into the auditorium, the lights stabbing into her. The audience ooh’ed and ahh’ed at her VT. Her mother’s enormous face pale and tearstained, telling them of her daughters conception. Of the day she was raped by a faceless man, raped, throat slit and left for dead. The image cut to one of them sharing a pot of tea and laughing in the garden. A close up of their joined hands, light and dark, before the camera panned round. It lingered over her breasts and mouth freshly moistened. At last it cut to the promo shots, the runner hastily checked her mike, gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder and pushed her onto the stage.

   She did not stumble, or blink confusedly, just walked serenely onto the taped X like a nonchalant pirate. She did not smile, not yet. The judges were arrayed in glitter, arrogance and gaudy colours behind their painfully modern desk. She did not look at them, they were irrelevant. Instead she sought out her audience, covertly scoped out the location of the cameras.

“At last, a pretty one! One more bucktooth and I was going to protest!”

The audience dutifully laughed, but seemed distracted.

“So young one, perhaps you are a singer? What have you got for us tonight?”

The judges faces contorted in pantomime waiting. The audience gazed at her, becoming quieter, still, waiting. She let it build, let them look at her, take her in. She met their eyes, not defiantly, not arrogantly. But open, open wide.

“I am the Daughter of God.”

7 comments:

  1. I really enjoyed this piece. It's great to see your style when applied to a modern-day setting. You still have a narrative style which marks it out as your own work (a signature if you will) but this piece shows that you are very capable in any genre. What shines through most is your versatility as a writer.

    The plot itself is really interesting, and brings to mind the themes of celebrity and religion in a fresh and intriguing way. The short, punchy quality of the piece is fab and the final line is a perfect climax to the story. That being said, there is certainly room for expansion. Should you chose to, this would make an excellent opening charter to a longer piece, in which the aftermath of your character's revelations can be analysed and explored. Would see be revered as the daughter of God, or would she be ridiculed as a lunatic? How would the public, the government and the press react to such an assertion? Although this concept has been used in other work, you seem to have enough fresh ideas (i.e. the gender and race issues, the cult of celebrity exploited by a modern day prophet) for this to be a wholly original and compelling read.

    My one criticism would be the way that you introduce the concepts of race and gender in the conversation that begins “I still think your colour’s going to be a problem.” This section feels too much like exposition, like you are telling the reader 'our main character is mixed race and a woman' rather than showing this to be the case, through description. It just feels out of place with the rest of the piece and I think a more subtle approach to these issues might be more beneficial to the story. It's ok to make the readers work for your message sometimes, rather than laying your cards on the table early on. I'm not sure if anyone will agree with me on this point, but I do feel that, if you were to approach this in a more subtle manner, the plot would benefit.

    There are a few grammatical bits and pieces, but I think a good, solid edit would fish these out, so nothing to worry too much about. Also, when speaking about a microphone, the shortened version is written as 'mic' not 'mike'. Bizarre, I know.

    All in all, I think this is very strong idea executed with considerable skill. I've always thought that you have an excellent sense of how to make a narrative compelling and readable without shirking away from interesting, original and unusual premises.

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  2. Well…that was fucking cool. I have my reservations and criticisms but hell yeah – celebrity and religion but with a female flavour? Yes please!
    So, is this a short story or are you going to continue? Yes, I found it more accessible than The Fall and although the words: susurrus and unguents strike me as downright unnecessary in any opening paragraph of mine, I did enjoy how you kept the reveal close to your choice until the end. All the predictable questions apply: Who raped her mother, how long has the girl believed she was the daughter of god, did she convince her mother via some knowledge similar to her awareness of all the future calamities to come? Obviously I don’t expect answers but I do want to know if you are going to follow this piece? It reads (as Leanne has noted) like your own but it really wouldn’t be out of place in my particular cannon of celeb/religious musings. Loved the ‘pantomime-waiting- look’ you’ve assigned the judges. I think of such looks and realise how happy I’ve been without a T.V for nearly a decade now. I can imagine flicking through the channels and not having to wait long for such fakery.

    I think the girl talks in a rather archaic fashion. It sounds very unnatural but I suspect that she didn’t always talk like this? After her conversion maybe? I hope she always felt like this/new her heritage as THAT would amp up the originality factor. What do you think, have her acquiring more ‘ability’ as time went on till she could reveal her identity to her mother?

    I LOVE this big-time:

    ‘Her mother flashed her a small smile, comfortable with such a normal thing. It had taken so long to find the right outfit. Is a dress too feminine, or embracing her sexuality, or would trousers give her more authority, or would that be embracing patriarchal prohibitions? Is white too standard a colour of innocence, red of whorishness, purple of assumed royalty and arrogance? Should she follow fashion to show her modernity, or go for a timeless classic (at the risk of seeming outdated?)’

    About the race issue: Your exposition (because that’s what it is) isn’t clunky/hurtful to the plot so far…save it though? I think it isn’t necessary just yet and thus can be interpreted by some (ie Leanne) as a little cumbersome. I had no problem with it but can imagine it coming up later with some right wing groups accidently letting it slip that they still deem the saviour to be a white, blonde blue eyed man. Their perception of Gods messenger colours the animus of modern western culture and thus therein lies your huge chunk of originality with this piece.
    The piece was spoilt a bit by an uncharacteristic sloppiness to the proof-reading and I could have waited another week for you to put the final touches together as your style is dependent on such careful editing. I found myself being pulled out of the story a bit too much and had your idea been anything less than splendid, I would have stopped reading and come back to it early next week.

    Thankfully you’re back and at the risk of getting my head bitten off – don’t comment on Handy Andy -review The Show. GrrrrrrrRRRRRRRAAARRRGGGHHHHHH!

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  3. It's interesting that you mention the protagonist's method of speech, John, because I was also unsure about it. It does seem very archaic, but I put this down to her being a very old soul. (As old as the universe in fact!) So, in terms of the character was, I thought the speech was fine. However, it does jar considerably with the modern setting. Maybe this was deliberate? To give her an unsettling sense of 'otherness'? I think that's a fair argument and I wouldn't advise changing the lexical choices there, as long as all your other characters speak in a more recognisable, modern style, then this enhances her difference.

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  4. WOW!

    This is a great story, I wish I could give some more productive feedback other than I really like it.
    But if it helps I'm especialy hard to please ^_^ so 'really liking' something is an achievment...

    The only thing I was left wondering was exactly happened to the 'sons' but I assume now it was J-zee, momo and the gang ^_^

    I've read it again in an attempt to find something I dont like about it ..clutching at straws.. cant see anything.

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  5. I really enjoyed this peice. Like Leanne it was refreshing (for me)to read something a little more (in Leannes words) modern day. (Cheers Leanne!) It would work as an opening to a longer story that I for one would love to read seeing as you've caught my attention. I want to know more! I'm guessing their trying to find the one world talent(?). A nod to all the reality tv shows that are decorating our tellys at the moment?

    Enjoyed the conversation between the young women and her mother. You can really see the love between them but also her mothers hesistance(?) at her daughters choices. Did that make sense?

    These next two lines are my favourite:

    "Her eyes were brown, but blown black with her anger, with her sadness and, worst of all, her fragile mocking hope." Brilliant line.

    "Her mother’s tears flowed down familiar groves." Really shows a mothers heartache. I think this line is beautiful and I can really picture the imagery - fantastic.

    I think her method of speech fitted with the person she is trying to portray. I think its a part of an image and it works for me. Especially seeing as it contrast with the woman who burts into the room and the vulgar sounding judges.

    I am intrigued by the stages of the show, especially seeing as she was looking forward to the "scientist" round.

    Like John already said there are a few clunky bits that I'm sure with a re-read will be smoothed out. Other then that I really enjoyed reading it and I look forward to reading more!

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  6. Me commenting here nearly a year on suggests one thing. I miss The Circle :( I don't get reminders via my bloggers link to FB sooooo...should any of you post a tale, email me and I will comment upon your works! Why wait for me to wander over here on a whim? Get my feedback. It's free of charge.

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  7. Haylo...could always have a gander at me latest tale if ye fancy it.

    http://ofbloodyreflections.blogspot.co.uk/2013/03/short-story-somebody-else.html

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